


A Rider in the Night

by ecoantics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family Feels, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecoantics/pseuds/ecoantics
Summary: Arya Stark traveled and trained for years, believing she no longer had family or a home. When she heard Jon Snow was alive and at Winterfell, things changed. Now she's on the Kingsroad North, and Winterfell is almost in sight. [Stark reunion, one-shot, mostly book-canon compliant.]





	A Rider in the Night

The night crept at her heels and at the edges of her sight. A thousand strong wolves to protect her, a Valyrian steel sword across her back, a bright moon hanging in the northern sky, and still the darkness felt ominous. The old trees watched over her, but the stench of death was on the wind, and an eerie hush had fallen over the tundra. Scrub grasses whispered to one another and stilled.

Her grey draft pony churned its legs against the tall snow. The Kingsroad between Moat Caitlin and Winterfell had once been well traveled, but the wars and the winter had seen to ending its traffic. Now there was only the suggestion of a road in the clustering of mounds of snow she thought to be trees. For many leagues, she had strayed so far from it she'd been able to see the White Knife through the howling snowy wind.

She let out a huff of breath, just a small cloud in the inky black. She swayed in her saddle, adjusted her furs, and resettled. She closed her eyes and let the feel of the world on her skin and the smells in her wolf nose mix in a slurry of senses. One of her pack sent up a howl from the east, ghostly and distant. Dead things in the grass near the White Knife, then. Not moving, just dead and down and rotting. Good.

A few more hours of pushing through the snows passed in star-lit silence. Her pony huffed against the strain of clearing a path, until Nymeria bounded forward to take the lead. Arya afforded herself a small smile. Nymeria: beautiful, brutal, and hers - for always and for true. Nymeria would never leave her.

She glanced up. The deep quiet of the Wolfswood encroached on her from the west. By the light of the half moon, she spotted the glinting White Knife encroaching from the east. Abruptly, her perception of the terrain shifted -- everything was suddenly _familiar_. Winterfell could not be but half a league farther, over those northern foothills. Disbelief seized her. _So close_. She wanted to cry, to howl, to run. She could not fail this time. Would not.

"Please," she whispered. "Old gods. Let me go home." Then she said, "Nymeria, run!" and kicked the pony into a gallop behind her flying wolf. She stood in the stirrups and felt her heartbeat pressing against her throat.

Fear gripped her deep in her heart, but when she crested the hill, the grey walls she knew so well were still there. She felt hot prickles in the corners of her eyes, burning against the cold wind. She could scarce look at the towers and walls; they were so beautiful they hurt to see. She clenched her teeth and her heart and flew through the snow towards home.

Now she could see the tents of the winter town blooming around the stony walls. Outside the winter town, a military encampment of thousands of fighters. A half-dug ditch circled it, pitch fires burning along its length.

Arya slowed to a walk as she neared the encampment. Her pony was lathered and huffing, so she dismounted and held her pony at the reins. Nymeria circled back to walk beside her, touching her curiously with her nose. _I am a wolf. I am not afraid_. She pet Nymeria once and kissed her nose. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ an echo reminded her.

Arya slipped into Nymeria's skin and howled. An order: remain and defend. Her pack howled in return. Many voices overlapping, lasting a long while. They were dispersed across leagues, but when they sang, the air felt alive and close.

As she listened, she glanced at her still and dazed body with Nymeria's eyes. Her body's whitened eyes were the only part of her visible under her furred hood and cloak. Of middling height and lean build, she looked like a woman of the mountain clans, like her great-grandmother, Arya Flint, or like a wildling raiding south of the Wall. _Who will know me now?_ she wondered. _Who among them would even want me?_

_This is your home_ , she reminded herself. _This is where you belong._ She returned to her body and led Nymeria and her pony up the far side of the ditch.

As she mounted the scarp, three northmen emerged from behind the palisade to greet her. One man bore a torch, throwing his scarred and wrinkled face into stark relief. A stocky, bearded man loosened his sword in its scabbard. The third man, tall and lean, fetched a pike leaning against the wooden wall.

"Halt, there," ordered the stocky man. She obliged him. "State your name and purpose."

She had thought for leagues how best to do this. Like as not, guards would not believe the truth, and might even turn her out as a liar or a thief. Instead, she had concocted a tale of the hungry dead and her small town in ruins; yet now that she stood on here, a footstep away from her family memories... she could not bring herself to lie. She pulled back her hood and freed her short plait from her furs. _Calm as still water._ "This one is Arya of House Stark, returning home."

For a heartbeat, the guards did not know what to do with that. She felt snowflakes landing and melting on her scalp, cold trickling down her neck. The stocky man appraised her in her fur rags and said, "Lady Arya Stark is long dead. Why ought we believe you?"

"Is my wolf not proof enough?" She glanced at Nymeria, who stepped further into the torchlight. Her fur gleamed grey and silver, her fangs iridescent white and yellow.

The guards shuffled back, the scarred man yelping in surprise. "Keep that thing back," said the tall man.

Nymeria kept creeping closer to them, teeth and tongue bared. She could smell the fear on them, could taste it on the night air. The face of the tall man was twitching as if he were on the edge of doing something foolish.

"Nymeria, heel." Nymeria paused in her step, then turned her back to the guards. Arya saw the play of muscles in their faces... the relief, the anger at being unmanned by a woman, and the undercurrent of fear.

"I hear Jon Snow holds Winterfell in the name of House Stark," she said. "If I am not Arya Stark, Jon will know immediately and likely have me banished for a pretender. I see no issue in this for you. Is that not so?" Arya heard her voice from the outside, as if the words were being spoken by another person. The words sounded firm, cool, and just proper enough to remind her of her lady mother.

The stocky man nodded. "I'll escort her to the castle," he told the others. He ordered her, "Leave your wolf here."

Arya appraised him: his brutish grip on his sword, his poor stance, and the uncertain set to his expression. "She stays with me."

One heartbeat, two, stretched to ten... and he relented. "Aye. Keep that thing close to you, then. One false move and I put steel in it." His voice wavered in the near-unheard way of men practiced at ignoring their fear. He waved her forward.

She handed her pony's reins to the scar-faced guard. She unstrapped her bedroll from the saddle and slung it over her shoulder. "Keep my things safe," she said, with that hint of sweetness that made men pliable. He squinted at her, his old eyes distrustful, but nodded.

The walk through the military encampment was quiet. The guard told her which directions to turn from behind her. Nymeria stalked beside her, a tall silver shadow. The tents were of various materials and styles, and they were not aligned in neat rows as reading histories had taught her to expect. Men of different cultures, then. She saw Westerosi banners for northern houses: Reed, Mormont, Glover, Flint, Dustin, Hornwood, and Manderly flapped in the distance. Many banners for House Stark, and a sea of white gulls of House Arryn. There were banners in the distance she couldn't see, and a host of full-black banners. But she also saw many tents with no banners at all. A few cookfires were still smoldering slightly, but she saw no men awake and about.

It wasn't long before they passed into the winter town. Her father had always spoken of the winter town as a thriving hub even during hard times. The thought it would be inns and marketplaces and well-maintained shacks and tents. Instead, Arya saw shacks leaning against one another like drunkards betting on braavo fights, in the same state of disarray and neglect. The shantytown had a decrepit air even in its youth. Alleyways were filled with iced-over streams of nightsoil, and the market squares they passed through were filled with people, nestled into the deeper snow in northern-style snow sleeping sacks. Their fur-lined sacks were pulled nearly shut at their faces, making the market squares look like a graveyard of half-buried bodies.

As they passed by an alleyway, a black mound in it appeared to breathe -- and with an unpleasant start, Arya realized it was a group of beggars sleeping in a huddle for warmth. She stopped where she stood and chewed her lip.

"What you staring at? Move it," the guard ordered.

The beggars shivered.

She walked towards the huddle of people and knelt next to them. She took her bedroll from her shoulder and unfurled it; Needle was nestled inside. Arya deftly belted Needle to her waist and hid it under her cloak. Then she spread the blankets of her bedroll over their shivering bodies. They didn't stir but to breathe. These were her people, and what good was she to them? Two blankets and a whispered apology fixed nothing.

When she turned back to her escort, the stocky man gave her a queer look. Arya returned it with a flat, cold stare. Might be that he was a superstitious sort of man. Some men, she knew, believed that suffering and misfortune could spread by foul humors in the air -- but that was stupid. The air didn't spread suffering. Malicious, greedy men did.

But it also might be that she was not what he was expecting. She looked at him to see him truly, as Syrio and the waif had both taught her, and saw that that was the right of it. What had he expected of her, then? To let the suffering of her people not bother her? Perhaps that was what he was used to from highborn folks. She supposed that would not be a strange expectation.

Walking on, she wondered what Jon was like now. Would he be the same? Solemn and brooding and sweet, when he wanted? He was the King of Winter now. How had it happened? Would he have forgotten her? She was just some stupid little girl he knew once. Would he know her? She was so different. Most days when she woke up she forgot that she was allowed to be Arya. Every day she struggled to remember who Arya was. Would he know? Her body had changed too -- would he even recognize her? She lightly touched Needle through her cloak. He must -- she had Needle, she had Nymeria. He must recognize her.

What would she do if he didn't?

A short walk through the last market square and finally, they reached the grey marble walls. The outer wall of the East gate loomed 80 feet above them, the archway barred with a thick iron gate. Beyond, the black oak and iron-studded drawbridge leading through the hundred-foot inner wall was drawn up. The moat between was frozen over. Somehow it was all less impressive than she remembered. Less secure.

A man leaned over the lip of the right bulwark. His helm and the distance obscured his face. "Who goes there?"

"Allyn, of the eastern watch," her guard shouted. "With a girl claimin' to be Lady Arya Stark."

"Lady Arya Stark is dead."

"Best let the King decide that." 

There seemed to be an unheard discussion above them for several minutes. Finally, the iron gate began to rise. "Step inside the gate," the bulwark guard ordered, "and wait there."

 

* * *

 

Teeth and fur and snow. Blood in his mouth. Ravens above, quorking " _Snow, Snow, Snow._ " Stars starting to fade in the pre-dawn light. A familiar smell -- the smell of his hulking sister, the smell of her pack of hundreds, but close now. The feel of his muscles stretching and pulling and stretching as his frozen white paws flashed across the crisp snow surface. Fog breath, wild smells, the song of his brothers in the air. And always, always, that creeping smell of death. " _Snow, Snow_ ," the ravens insisted. He panted, stretch-pull-stretch-pull, the trees passing in a blur.

" _Jon._ "

He broke into wakefulness blindly. For too many heartbeats, he was still in the Wolfswood. Then his sight and mind cleared; he was sitting upright in his bed, with his hand gripping Dolorous Edd's wrist hard enough to break something. Edd was grimacing and white-eyed.

Jon jerked away and released him. "What is it, Edd?"

Edd massaged his wrist. "East gate watch reports a lone rider approaching from the Kingsroad. He's riding hard and being followed by wolves. You said you wanted to know of any riders, but he seems a dead man to me."

Jon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and massaged his tense neck. The red priestess' words came to mind. _A rider in the night, with a sword just for you. Poison on their lips and blood on their hands_. Her visions had never been wrong. He had died once from not heeding her warnings; he did not intend to do so again. But the poison on their lips -- was it some foul message he must hear? He flexed his hand and stood.

"Send a messenger boy to the guards on the East gate - the rider is to be allowed through." Jon started to get dressed, not looking at Edd. "Summon a guard of ten men. Have the rider brought to the Great Hall for questioning. Have breakfast brought for our guest. Wake Sansa and Bran and have them brought to the Great Hall as well. Whatever our guest has to say, I will have need of Sansa and Bran's advice."

Edd muttered, “Aye, Your Grace," and backed out of the room. Men never seemed to trust him enough to turn their backs on him these days. He wasn't sure if it was him or his new title. He supposed it didn't matter: these days people listened when he spoke and did not work to undermine him. A welcome reprieve from his days as Lord Commander.

He dressed quickly, refusing to look at the deep scars on his chest. Perhaps someday he would be able to ignore them. Today was not that day; they glared at him from the edge of his sight, a constant reminder of the blackness waiting for him in the end. Underclothes, a layer of linen, and a layer of wool helped him block the memory. Then light chain mail, and a black woolen tunic with a white wolf emblazoned on the left breast. Last, a dark fur cloak, leather boots, and his sword belt.

As he left his room in the First Keep and headed towards the Great Hall, he tied his hair back in a knot. It was too long for his liking, but Sansa told him it gave him a more distinguished, kingly appearance. _More like Father, is what she means_. Yet he respected her opinion on matters of state enough to heed her -- she had more success with appearances and manipulating public opinion than him.

As he passed the Great Keep, Sansa and Bran emerged. Sansa's high cheekbones and stern eyes lent her an intimidating composure, even when jostled awake at such a godless hour. She pushed Bran in his wheeled chair in front of her. His expression was always a bit distant, with an eerie aura of knowing about him.

Bran smiled upon seeing Jon. "It's good that you woke us," Bran said. A strange response to the situation, but he didn't offer anything more.

"It's important, then?" Sansa asked.

Jon studied Bran for a moment. "Seems so. Shall we?"

Guards pulled open the heavy oaken doors to the Great Hall as they approached. Inside, torches burned on the walls and a hearth fire was beginning to catch under the care of an attendant. The cavernous space repeated their staccato steps back to them, and the air seemed to tremble with cold. Eight long columns of tables pointed toward the head table on the dais; it was a feast for five hundred ghosts.

One of the cooks, a woman named Balla, brought a small selection of fruit from the glass gardens and a loaf of hearty seed bread for them to break their fast with. They ate it all eagerly, and Balla brought them mint tea for warmth.

"Who do we wait for?" Sansa asked over her tea.

"A rider. Bringing important news, I suspect." Jon picked up the last crust of the bread and chewed on it absently. Bran was still smiling that sweet, private smile. Jon wanted to ask, but suspected he wouldn't get an answer.

At last the doors to the Great Hall opened again. Fifteen guards, not ten. Curious. Among them, a figure of middling height, garbed in full furs. Beside him, a huge wolf. The wolf was larger than Ghost, but had the same odd face shape. A direwolf. Jon jolted to his feet.

The figure pulled back her hood and shook her hair free. Dark brown hair -- not a mess, but instead neatly braided in the style of commonfolk. A long face. A piercing, fierce expression. Solemn, cold, grey eyes...

Jon could not believe it. "Arya?" His voice was hoarse. His heart stuttered in his chest. "Little sister?"

Her face broke into a wide, soft smile. Tears leaked from her eyes. "Jon," she said, and her voice was older, lower, throatier. Her accent was different, unplaceable. But no mistake, this could only be Arya. Returned from the dead.

He ran to her, prophecy be damned. She leapt at him, threw herself into his arms, crushed him in a hug. He would never let her go. Arya, alive. Arya, well. Arya, returned to him. Nothing else mattered. He heard someone sobbing and realized it was both of them. He laughed, his throat thick with tears.

"I missed you--"

"--so much," she sobbed.

He sunk to his knees, clinging to her. "I can't believe you're real. Gods be good, you're alive. I can't believe it."

He heard Sansa and Bran approaching. He heard Arya muttering, "You know me, you know me, you know me," like a prayer he couldn't understand. He felt her arms around him, sure and strong and so very alive. He smelled pine and dirt and blood on her, and felt the scabbard of a sword across her back. He had never dared imagine what it would feel like to have Arya safe at home, but if he had, he would never have imagined he would feel so whole.

"You're alive, you're safe, you're home," he told her.

She loosened her grip on him to lean back and laugh, full and hearty and snorting, just as raucous as he remembered. Then she pressed kisses into his scarred face and laughed again. "I'm home," she said, teary eyed. She looked up at her other siblings and laughed again. "Bran and Sansa are both alive and at home," she said, with open wonder. She climbed up from her place on the floor with Jon and pulled him up after her.

She seized Bran in an awkward hug. He lifted his arms to encircle her and that sweet smile drifted onto his face again. "I'm glad you're home," he said, with his willowy hollow voice.

"I'm glad you're alive. Last I heard you were dead at Theon's hands," she replied, and let go of him. She drank him in with her grey eyes, like she believed none of what she saw. She hugged Sansa next, fierce and close. "I heard talk that you are Lady of the Veil. Married to a decent man. Are they true?" She drew back to look at Sansa's face.

Sansa smiled enigmatically. "That and more," she replied. Arya seemed to find satisfaction in Sansa's response and hugged her again.

Arya turned back to Jon. "I still have it. Needle, I mean." She pulled back the edge of her cloak to reveal the tiny blade. It looked half a toy compared to her now. "Saved my life more than once."

Jon laughed. "I can't believe you still have it," he said. "Did you learn how to use it?"

At that Arya smiled as Sansa had. "That and more," she said. She put her hand in Nymeria's fur and pet her wolf absently.

Jon glanced at the sword on her back. How much more was 'more'? "Graduated to real swords then?"

"With your first lesson, how could I not become skilled at it?" she replied easily.

"Stick them with the pointy end," they said, together. They smiled at one another like fools.

"Well..." Jon said, just then remembering the audience of guards around them. "Would you like something to break your fast? The four of us can retire to the gallery. We have a lot to talk about, it seems."

Arya grinned. "I would love that."


End file.
